


Danseur étoile

by Mozzarella



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A shitton of ballet terminology, Alternate Universe - Ballet, And links to dance moves because like my Sambucky fic I did RESEARCH, And other ballets mentioned, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet, Dancing, F/M, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), M/M, Sleeping Beauty - Freeform, Swan Lake - Freeform, Val Royeaux (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozzarella/pseuds/Mozzarella
Summary: Dorian Pavus was made for the dramatic roles of villains in ballet. It was what got him into Kirkwall Dance Company after running from Tevinter, and what got him welcomed into Val Royeaux's Royal Ballet collaborative season of classic ballet productions. But being a romantic lead, a prince? That was something he had to struggle with.That, and the threat of being deported. Not just for him, but for his new Qunari lover. Just when he was getting the romance part of romantic lead down.[Or, An Adoribull Ballet AU]
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21
Collections: Actually Adoribull Fic, The Adoribull Big Bang 2020





	Danseur étoile

**Author's Note:**

> ART BY THE AMAZING TEVINTERPHOENIX ON TUMBLR! Their artwork will be linked shortly :D
> 
> This is mostly finished, but unfortunately work kicked me in the behind and I've also made the terrible (yet rewarding) decision to link all the dance moves I mention in this fic to visual examples of them. 
> 
> Lots of ballet terminology in here! I'll try to keep you guys from getting lost. 
> 
> Have fun!

[ by Tevinterphoenix ](https://tevinterphoenix.tumblr.com/)

Dorian remembered the first time he watched a bootleg copy of the Kirkwall Dance Troupe’s performance of The Nutcracker. Felix had told him it was something he needed to see, and they’d snuck it during a sleepover - one of the very, very few freedoms Dorian’s parents allowed “as a treat” for when he did particularly well at his classes. 

It had been banned in Tevinter, which had struck Dorian as odd since the video resources for ballet performances out of cities like Val Royeaux and Denerim were allowed despite how terribly southern they were. He’d fallen in love with the works of then young up-and-comer Vivienne De Fer, a stately, graceful woman with a neck like a swan’s and eyes like a snake’s, and Dorian thought that she would fit right in among the elite (and elitist) dancers of Tevinter. She was like a swan - graceful and delicate with her long neck and a glorious vision in white, but from interviews and vicious and terrifying when it counted. 

He’d copied, and since adapted, the way she’d extend her neck and tilt her head just so, never stiff but always unmoving. It had helped him through many a difficult day, and certainly netted him praise from his teachers at the prestigious ballet academy his parents had had him enroll in very young. 

Vivienne was a queen among dancers, the epitome of prima among ballerinas, but it wasn’t she that inspired Dorian to come to the south. 

It was the young, lesser known, yet soon highly sought out dancer Fenris, that became Dorian’s greatest inspiration as a dancer. He was of Tevinter, though Dorian knew he never could have thrived there. Early in Fenris’ career, he traveled south when scouted by the Kirkwall Dance Company, which was owned by Hawke-Tethras Productions, a subsidiary of Tethras Trade, which funded various artistic endeavours among the largely impoverished population of Kirkwall. 

In the Free Marches, the prowess of an elven dancer could be properly appreciated, and a younger Dorian (though Fenris could not be much older than he) watched the man execute great leaps and dance moves onstage with grace and power and raw passion that he’d never seen from any elf, let alone any flouncing Vint dancer from the Great Minrathous Dance Academies. 

An older Dorian found himself, like most first children of Tevinter’s elite families, trapped in a marriage with no way out, until he saw an open call for auditions for the very same company out of Kirkwall. He sent a tape of a solo performance that was more raw than he’d ever let anyone in his circle of “friends” in Tevinter see, with the exception of Mae and Felix, and some weeks later found himself a letter of employment that allowed him to be hired onto KDC as a dancer on a work visa, boarding quickly within the month, only days before his parents planned to announce his engagement. 

He hadn’t told them until the night before. He’d packed surreptitiously and sent his bags ahead to Felix’s, saying only that he’d been accepted after he sent an audition by tape. His mother tutted disapprovingly, waving her hand as if it was a silly notion she could dust off, and his father had told him they would be drafting a letter in the morning rejecting the offer, since Dorian already had a promising career and future in Minrathous, and responsibility to the family and family name besides.

Dorian left that night, took a cab at the witching hour and only stopped by at Felix’s for the time it took to say his goodbyes. Mae had been there, which Dorian had been grateful for, and had told him of a bank account she’d opened for him in Kirkwall through her cousin-in-law, to supplement the money he’d slowly withdrawn over the past few weeks. He didn’t want to accept, but Mae was the kind of person who was as vicious as she was loving, and he couldn’t say no, even if he’d truly wanted to. She strong-armed him into financial security and embraced him like a sister, or even a mother, would, and with one last tearful hug with Felix and promises to call, Dorian Pavus left Tevinter with the dawn. 

* * *

“It’s run run run, [glissade saud de chat](https://youtu.be/RX7U5MtY7cE?t=64) [sous sus](https://youtu.be/nvmntsKoP7w?t=84), not [glissade grand jete](https://youtu.be/RX7U5MtY7cE?t=74) sous sus! And make sure to watch the arch of your back, chest fully out, arms in fourth. We need to let them see your wings!” 

Dorian rolled the tips of his toes against the floor, catching his breath and nodding as he took his original position from stage right. Anders began clapping the beat in steady time as he ran through the steps once more, adding a gallop after his run, leading into a perfect and suitably dramatic saud de chat with his head tipped back, high off the ground, before landing and sweeping his arms above his head, body stretched to perfection. 

He spread his arms as he circled back, stopping when Anders signaled a pause. 

“Nice, Dorian. What do we think about the [Coupé Jeté en Tournant en Manége](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y6jlRF8-p0Q) ending in a [double tour](https://youtu.be/fGos_TYt4aY?t=120) in fifth?” 

“I think Orsino should stop being such a boring old fop,” Dorian said airily, and Anders laughed. 

“Meredith will have your head if she sees you messing with the choreography,” he said. “But between you and me, it could use a bit of shaking up.” 

Dorian grinned. “What about a tour into a [butterfly](https://youtu.be/n7AaZhEOJSY?t=4) to finish?” 

Anders’ eyes widened. “Oh they will definitely kill you.” 

“Worth it, though.” 

* * *

In the end, despite a lot of very audible gnashing of teeth from Meredith, they agreed to keep the butterfly leap in, with Dorian preening at the silent praise of his idea, and his ability to perform such a jump. It fit the costume with its grand feathers, and the [very drama of Rothbart’s](https://petersburgballet.com/s1/files/image/mariinsky/swanlake/slider/swanlake-slider-6.jpg) character matched Dorian’s own. 

Still, though he thrived in the role he was given and enjoyed playing the part of the frightening, beautiful villain, he still sighed over the Siegfrieds and the Franzes. Partly because the pretty, princely and country-blond boys who played them made for good eye candy, but also partly because he wondered if he couldn’t ever _be_ one of them. 

When he first came to the South, he had been more interested in simply _having a job._ Kirkwall was kind of a shithole, but Vinty enough that Dorian felt fairly at home. His status as a Vint and a mage besides got him the evil eye from Meredith when he first auditioned, but after he proved himself and his mastery, and with a good word from the eponymous Hawke-Tethras partnership who were present for his performance, he was accepted on probation for the first six months. 

Meredith was a stern-faced taskmaster, but even with her clear biases, she was most interested in good art, and allowed that Dorian could provide said good art, especially in more villainous roles that dancers like the somewhat boorishly Ferelden Cullen couldn’t enjoy, let alone perform, if he tried. 

Her partner Orsino, himself a mage with the littlest power to show for it, was, however, quite taken with Dorian’s style, though not so much his sass, which slowly unveiled itself the more confident Dorian became of his place in the group.

Both, however, clearly approved of his dancing. And when more about his reasons for leaving Tevinter came to light, they became less suspicious of his character. 

As for the rest of the KDC, well. 

Varric and Hawke liked him quite a bit more than he’d expected to be liked by anyone when he first came to Kirkwall. It appeared that they were the ones who watched his tape, and Hawke tried to tell him exactly what it was about his set that spoke to him - though he wasn’t really the poet his friend and business partner was, so Dorian barely understood a lick of it. 

Varric clarified later: “Sparkler, it’s hard to find something that _raw_ out of the usual prissy elites we get coming through those doors. We liked that. Don’t question it too much.”

So Dorian settled into his roles as best as he could, feeling accepted, yet never quite feeling like he belonged. 

He formed a friendly acquaintance with most of KDC’s major cast, apart from Fenris - the very elf who inspired him to come in the first place. It hurt, at first, to be cast aside like he was less than trash, but after Hawke pulled him aside to explain the extent of Fenris’ past with Tevinter and mages and the elite and all Dorian represented, essentially, Dorian let it go, contenting himself to giving Fenris the respect he deserved and, surprisingly, getting the littlest bit of acknowledgement from the elf in turn. 

He got more out of Fenris’... rival(? The way Hawke and Varric had described it, there was a lot of hostility, yet the two continued to do exceptionally well in the troupe as leads) Anders, whose own descent from magedom and a bare hint of healing magic in him made him kindly inclined to Dorian.

Dorian settled into his life in Kirkwall with the hopes and drive of one knowing he was headed for better things, but happy with how far he’d come already. 

Then, only a year into his move to Kirkwall, came the biggest upheaval: an invitation, and KDC’s move to Val Royeaux.

* * *

Val Royeaux was the city where ballet had been _invented_ in Thedas, and certainly the central hub for all its best shows. Dorian had dreamt of dancing on its polished stages and under its gilded eaves, and couldn’t believe that he was now part of the troupe that had gotten an invite from Val Royeaux’s Royal Ballet to perform for a season, with the condition that they assist with the lessons at their dance academy. 

Dorian in particular had been included in the roster of regulars due to his background in Tevinter dance and his villainous typecasts, and it was implied but not outright stated (by anyone but Anders, who whispered the news conspiratorially in Dorian’s ear during their celebratory sendoff) that it had been Dorian’s performance as Rothbart and his improvised butterfly leap that had caught the attention of the company that danced for the Empress herself. 

He didn’t have much of a life in Kirkwall, for all that he’d been proud of leaving Tevinter behind and trying to start anew. His apartment was one he barely spent time in, preferring to perfect his dances in the studio late into his days and simply fall asleep in the tight little box with what few belongings he had, slowly rebuilding his wardrobe with what he was paid. When he packed up for an extended stay in Orlais, he brought everything he owned in two big bags and put his place up on a sublet for the season. 

The room he was provided in Val Royeaux was a vast improvement over what he paid for. The bed was enormous and ostentatious, and it seemed as though the VRRB had repurposed hotel rooms to house them for the months they’d be spending in the South’s most metropolitan city. 

His room shared a balcony with Cullen’s, and the man looked annoyed at every little Orlesian detail, grumbling about how unnecessary it all was. 

“Well you may not like all the benchmarks of civilisation, but I enjoy having complimentary chocolates on my pillows, thank you very much,” Dorian sniffed, and Cullen chuckled, letting out a sigh that Dorian knew meant he was (begrudgingly) accepting it all. 

It was surprising how well he and Cullen got along in close enough quarters. It was clear to Dorian that Cullen was uncomfortable around mages, even if magic had gotten to the point that there was barely any bite to it beyond a few mild burns and shocks from particularly strong elementals. There was something there Dorian wasn’t willing to pry, but it seemed as though they got along well once Cullen whipped out the chessboard and the two got to talking. 

It was that amiability and Cullen’s offensively lovely eyes that got Dorian to admit something he hadn’t wanted to admit to anyone, one afternoon when they were sitting on the balcony playing a game. 

“Really? You want to try for Siegfried in the next season?” Cullen said, gaping. Dorian might have taken that moment to move his pieces and cheat, if he didn’t feel so offended.

“You don’t have to sound so skeptical. It’s not as though I’m not capable of it,” he sniffed. 

“It’s not that at all,” Cullen assured sheepishly. “I just thought… well, you seem to have the time of your life when you’re playing Rothbart. I can’t imagine anyone doing a better job than you.” 

At that, Dorian preened. “Well, I am amazing,” he said, to which Cullen rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “But the truth is,” he went on, sobering just a little, “I do want to see if I can’t convince Southern audiences that the dread Tevinter might not be good at pulling at the heartstrings in a more… heroic role. And those I looked up to when I was younger used to do amazing things with their variations of classic ballet romantic heroes. It’s what really inspired me, you know.” 

“I think you could do great things with it,” Cullen said warmly after some friendly, thoughtful silence, then wryly, “even if it might get me out of a job if you decide to just throw the typecasting out the window.” 

“Then you’d better step up, your highness,” Dorian laughed. 

* * *

The first day had been remarkably comfortable for Dorian, for all that it had stressed out most of the others in the KDC who were unused to the chilling stares and turned-down noses of Madame De Fer and her company. She was brisk and no-nonsense, talking them through exercises with tones so clipped she didn’t need to clap to get them to catch her rhythm. 

Dorian grew up with harshness and strictness and therefore knew how to give his best self when put under scrutiny, and got an approving nod and acknowledgement from the Madame while Cullen got a rap with her jeweled stick on his turnout, one that Dorian noticed had the littlest bit of frost at the end, marking Madame Vivienne a mage. 

For all that Dorian thought she might wilt under such harshness, Merrill seemed to be doing just fine, floating through her set and allowing her partner to lead and lift her without fail. Isabela was running into a few issues when getting orders snapped at her, but she was a naturally excellent dancer, and no amount of rebellion on her part could stop her from showing off her strengths. 

There had only been a few people brought along on this trip, and Dorian had wondered why Fenris hadn’t taken part given his well-established fame in the ballet world until Anders told him that they were still recovering from the last time Fenris had been in the city. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened, but it seemed to have something to do with Anders also being on that same trip, and also staying back for this one. 

“Have fun, though,” he’d bidden. “Val Royeaux has the most amazing tiny cakes. I asked Varric to bring us some at the end of the season.”

At the end of the session came introductions, which Madame Vivienne and her colleagues, some of whom Dorian recognised, deferred. 

“Their dancing should be their first impressions,” said a bald elf Dorian didn’t know, but who carried himself with such grace and nobility that it didn’t surprise him the least bit to see him in such a position in the notoriously elf-hating Val Royeaux. 

As they began going around the room, Dorian learned that the elf’s name was Solas, and he was a famed solo danseur until he was brought into the Royal Ballet by their newest up-and-comer playing leads in their productions, the dalish Lavellan, whose effortless swing between female leads and male solos made them a unique and powerful figure in the ballet world. M. E. Lavellan was another figure in Dorian’s catalogue of truly admirable dancers that broke the mold, but one that came later in his years, since Lavellan was younger than even he was. 

Dorian was ready to shake the elf’s hand and compliment them on their work, but Lavellan seemed to get right on ahead of him, shaking his hand vigorously with both of theirs, chattering all the while about his fantastic set from the Tethras lineup of the previous year’s summer. 

It was sweet, and Dorian accepted the praise warmly, even if it did earn him a surprisingly sharp eyebrow lift from Solas. 

Among the rest Dorian met the lovely Leliana and Josephine, the former an older and more well-established figure in ballet, going between Ferelden and Orlesian companies depending on the year, and Josephine a delightfully sociable woman from Antiva who seemed as princess-like in her bearing as any prima in her position; the Trevelyan twins, both of whom were part of a well-established third generation of dance families from Ostwick and only one of whom seemed to be making eyes at Cullen while the other gave Dorian a friendly, somewhat flirtatious smirk; Mera Cadash, one of the few dwarves Dorian had ever seen in ballet and certainly the only one in the room; Marda and Malakas Adaar, who looked nothing alike save for both being Qunari, with Malakas a little closer to human size while Marda was full-shouldered and Amazonian; and Cassandra Pentaghast, who reminded Dorian of KDC’s miracle-working head of security, Aveline, though Cassandra had the grace and poise of an experienced dancer where Aveline had two left feet and couldn’t do a single pirouette to save her life. 

It was a surprisingly eclectic group for Val Royeaux’s elite dance company, but then Dorian had heard that Empress Celene had much more modern sensibilities than her predecessors.

“This will be a learning experience,” said Solas, his tone a strange mix of stoically bland and compellingly weighty. “We will see over the next three weeks how we work with one another, how our styles might flow together, and then discuss what performances we will be staging for First Day feasts through Wintersend. Auditions will take place in the fifth week to give us ample time to prepare, and on certain days we will be coming together for short workshops with our students in the Academy.” 

“We will expect cooperation and decorum when conducting ourselves among our students,” Vivienne added, a warning if Dorian ever heard one. He’d never truly been in a position to teach what he knew to others, and for the most part never had the opportunity, let alone the inclination, to be around lower level novices. 

But he supposed it would be a learning experience for everyone. 

* * *

The first time Dorian walked into Class B-C, a class that mercifully took place after 10am and didn’t require him to rise with the dawn like Cullen’s assignment, the most he expected to find was a class full of mid-level dancers who he’d awkwardly attempt to guide through forms and then less awkwardly choreograph a set for them to practice. 

What he did not expect as he sauntered gracefully through the door was to see an enormous, bare-armed Qunari with the tightest leotard he’d ever seen over massive, scarred muscles, and it took all his considerable willpower not to look down at his black tights, wondering how a man like that could possibly be around what looked like older teens in traditional ballet clothing. 

When the Qunari turned his head at Dorian’s entrance, he was even more alarmed to see that he was wearing an eyepatch, and had extensive scarring on his face that made it clear he’d been in a few true battles in his time. 

What surprised Dorian the most, however, was the immediate and totally shameless once-over the other man sent his way, which made him blush and preen, his response a well-practiced toss of his head that made the grin on the scarred face broaden. 

“Hey there, Messere Pavus,” he greeted. Even with the formal address, he said it with casual ease, rolling off his tongue with a growl of a voice. Dorian had to loose his lower lip from between his teeth, unaware he’d even bitten down on it. He stepped forward, hand out. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve been formally acquainted. I’m sure I’d remember a man of your stature,” Dorian said, flirting readily with a hooded look that seemed to please the other man immensely. 

“I’m a bit of a fan, actually. Saw your work on last year’s Tethras Originals showcase, the one with all the red and that wild headpiece. What was it?”

“Legacy. That was a monster to work with. So many practical effects to deal with, but it was one of my easier roles. Mostly just had to laugh like an ancient evil magister, but Varric let me choreograph much of it. Seemed to entertain, though,” said Dorian, flattered by the attention. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage, serah.”

“Oh, sorry,” said the other sheepishly, taking Dorian’s hand in a firm grip. “Bull. The Iron Bull, that is. I run the Chargers over on Florian Street.”

Dorian considered asking about the name, but decided against it, instead trying to keep the conversation going as he did some stretches on the barre, one leg pulled straight and heel braced over the top.. Bull leaned on one arm to his side, watching him show off his flexibility. 

“A studio?”

“We got one, sure. But our thing is that we teach different schools of dance from across the South and the Marches, even a little Tevinter traditional. I was classically trained in the Qun, though, so the Madame asks me to take care of these troublemakers every week for this collaboration.”

He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to the sound of barely contained giggles and snorts and said, without looking, “You know what you are!”, which earned some hearty laughter. 

“I know the Qun did a lot of amazing work with the classics, but I’ll admit I’ve never seen any tapes out of Qunandar. I’ve always been curious,” Dorian said, eyes widening at the mention of Bull’s background. 

“Guess I could give you a show,” Bull said, not at all subtle with the suggestive lift of an eyebrow and the tilt of a head that looked like a pantomime of a wink with his patch-covered eye. Dorian snorted. 

“That was bad,” he said, turning away to really lean into the length of his leg as he pushed forward. Bull chuckled and moved a little closer, and Dorian could feel his large hand hovering over his back but not touching. 

“Okay?” he asked, and Dorian nodded, and he helped him by pushing down on his back, allowing him to get the full stretch. 

“I am unfortunately terrible with names and I’m liable to forget all of yours if you told me, so let’s just have some hands if you have any questions,” Dorian said to the class when they finally began, a gaggle of attentive, long-legged young people, mostly elves and humans with a handful of dwarves and only two Qunari. “We will be doing some exercises across the floor, see where your skill level is. We’ll start with some [soutenu pique turns](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJ_7qtwuVz0), then switch over to [cabrioles,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cI2Qr8_8Ytc) [grand jetés](https://youtu.be/7i8HvrRnaN4?t=111) and then [tour jetés](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ywkuaIPsVBA). Then we’ll move on to some more complex sets if you’re all up for it.”

Bull stood off to his side, smirking, and Dorian gave him one in turn and added, “And Messere Bull will be joining you, of course,” which prompted a cheer from the students and an amused look from Bull. 

“Sure, but I’ll have to ease up on some of those jumps,” said Bull, patting one of his knees where Dorian saw a soft black athletic brace. “Got a bum knee. Can do a few turns and a couple of jumps, but I can’t go too hard like I used to.”

“Of course,” Dorian replied, startled. “You don’t have to if-”

Bull waved his concern away, grinning. “Like I’d miss the chance to show off,” he said, and with an amused huff from Dorian, he took his place among his students - who were clearly intrigued by the back and forth between their two instructors.

The students were clearly well-trained and knowledgeable, with only a few polishes needed here and there and brisk instructions from Dorian to watch their turnout and keep their heads steady during the turns. They’d even ordered themselves in a way where the latter half of the exercise was taken up by Class C dancers: advanced, graceful and confident. 

Bull was in the very back of the line with two other students, and he performed his turns with decisive, mechanically perfect movements, knowing confidence in the way he held himself, nothing about his form to be remarked on even with his bad knee. It was clear why he was the teacher, and why his students were so accomplished. 

The cabrioles were much the same on all fronts, with few dropped chins or curled postures mid-jump along the way for Dorian to correct. The difficulty came with the leaps, with grand jetés getting a decent number of small stumbles and few able to even perform the tour jetés. It was to be expected, however, and Dorian was impressed with the overall aptitude of the class. It was clear why they couldn’t do leaps as well, however, with Bull rubbing his own knee after a clearly well-executed, but also clearly straining set of leaps. 

At the end of the lesson, when Dorian executed a few perfect leaps plus some exceptionally unnecessary but visually impressive ones at the class’ insistence, he found Bull sliding his athletic brace down and massaging around his knee. 

“You shouldn’t have pushed yourself,” Dorian chided, offering him a bottle of water. 

“Didn’t want to seem incapable for something as little as this,” Bull said, taking the bottle gratefully. 

“You didn’t have to try and impress me. Your students did that already,” Dorian laughed. “They clearly have a good teacher.”

“Can’t be that good if I can’t teach them a few good leaps,” Bull shrugged. 

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Take a compliment, Serah Qunari.” 

Bull eased up and chuckled, but winced when he shifted and his knee seemed to go a bad way. 

“May I?” Dorian asked, holding hands out. Bull looked puzzled, but nodded, and Dorian knelt before him, rolling up his tights over the scarred grey skin. The knee looked worse than it seemed when Bull had been putting weight on it, but Dorian hoped it had healed well enough. He gathered what little magic he had to warm his hands, and Bull flinched away when he first touched the scarred surface. 

“The fuck,” Bull whispered, and Dorian pulled back. 

“Sorry,” he began, but Bull shook his head quickly. 

“Nah, no, sorry. Forgot you were-” 

“A mage? What else would an altus from Tevinter be?” Dorian said without heat, but withdrawing his hands anyway. He should’ve guessed even the barest hint of magic still showing in the modern day would make a Qunari uncomfortable. 

“Thought you might be an altus, but I guess it didn’t really hit me what one would be doing with a dance company in Kirkwall,” Bull admitted. “I just got startled. Not like I haven’t seen magic before, I’m just used to it in a casual setting, or around here. If it’s…. If the offer’s still on the table, I promise I won’t jump this time,” he added. 

“If you’re sure,” Dorian said, cautiously letting the tips of his fingers brush against scar tissue. Bull shivered, but he didn’t think it was from startlement, this time. 

“I’m sure that this isn’t exactly how I imagined the first time you’d be kneeling in front of me, but I’m not mad at it,” Bull said lowly, and Dorian felt the gruff of the man’s voice settle in his stomach as he began to massage the muscles around the knee. 

Bull groaned. “Shit. Fuck. Koslun’s ass.”

Dorian paused, holding his hands over the skin. “I’m sorry, did I-”

“No, it’s just. Really nice. You forget how much pain you get used to when someone with some fucking magic hands just makes it go away.”

Dorian smirked, going back to the massage. “That’s not all I can do with my magic hands, believe you me.”

“I believe you,” Bull said, his tone remarkably and distractingly soft. “Hey, listen. If I’m making you uncomfortable with the uh…”

“Sexual innuendo so blunt you could bludgeon someone with it?” Dorian said wryly. 

“Yeah. That. I’m a flirt but feel free to tell me to back off, and I will.”

Dorian considered the look on his rough face for a moment and was surprised to find it… earnest. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dorian said, making it clear from his tone and raised eyebrows that he had no intention of telling Bull to back off, which Bull seemed to acknowledge with a wide, satisfied grin. 

Dorian came out of that particular encounter with a phone number, the promise of coffee later in the week and a vividly delicious image of Bull’s face looking down at him from his angle that he was able to enjoy in bed alone later that night. 

Dorian didn’t see Bull again that week, until the Saturday after Solas and Madame De Fer asked him to help them collaborate on M.E. Lavellan’s solo choreography. Dorian made the active decision not to let his surprise show on his face, to have these two powerhouses (who also happened to be mages, it turned out) ask him to do something so high profile, until he realised Lavellan was themselves a mage, and made it clear that Vivienne De Fer and Solas’ styles were proving stale for what the elvish genius was planning on their next exhibition. 

Both dancers looked deeply offended by Lavellan’s glib dismissal of their talents, but it was a testament to Lavellan’s prowess as a principal dancer that they made no further fuss when Dorian joined them in going over the steps they’d already laid out. 

Dorian’s eventual contribution included a few stylistic flourishes, and the inclusion of some flashier magic that Madame De Fer seemed to silently disapprove of (though she said nothing of it) and Solas seemed surprised to agree with. 

By the end of it, Lavellan proclaimed that Dorian was their new best friend - a statement that Dorian took to be hyperbole until he was greeted Saturday morning by a knock on his door and the very cheerful-looking Lavellan dressed in stylish, proudly Dalish clothing with crude exclamations printed on the front, insisting he join them in introducing him to the best parts of the city. 

The best parts of the city, it turned out, were the parts that were bustling with activity from all walks of life, and were not even a little ashamed to be elf-friendly or favouring. Being from Tevinter, Dorian got some odd and suspicious and downright hostile looks, but he’d had worse from worse people in Tevinter (and really, no other elf could rival the looks and light attempts at murder from Fenris the first few months in KDC), so he took it all in stride. 

It helped that Lavellan had their arms locked in camaraderie as they introduced Dorian to some of their friends, including an appallingly-dressed elf girl by the name of Sera who proclaimed him an “alright sort” when she opened by insulting him and his bloodline and he shot gamely back with a dig at her clothes and hair. 

He found Varric Tethras at the eclectically-decorated, dingy yet oddly comfortable bar they ended up in in the slums that were once Val Royeaux’s Alienage a little under a century ago, a remarkably drunk Hawke in his lap as the man professed his totally bromantic love to his business partner in song, and covered his face with one hand when the man shouted “Well if it isn’t our Sparkler! Come on, have a seat with us lowly folk,” from across the room. 

“Varric, you literally pay me my salary. If anyone’s lowly folk here, it’s me,” Dorian greeted. 

“Sparkler, you’re an altus from Tevinter and we can see it from how you look down your noses at everyone. If you were lowly folk I’d worry about the state of the world,” Varric said, before Hawke sang another ballad into his neck. Dorian wondered if he was trying to send a message that the dwarf wasn’t hearing. 

Before Dorian could respond, however, he heard a booming laugh from somewhere behind him and felt his heart skip a beat when he realised it was familiar. 

And lo and behold, sitting in a corner and surrounded by a strange yet fitting group of humans, elves, and one dwarf with a mustache perhaps more impressive than Dorian’s (though he’d never admit it), was The Iron Bull. When he clocked Dorian where he stood, his entire face stretched from the smile, and he waved Dorian over, prompting the man to come forward into the space of he and his many companions. 

“Good! We’re not drinking alone. Hey, boss!” Bull suddenly called over Dorian’s shoulder, and Lavellan gave Bull an over-dramatic curtsey from the bar. “Hope you don’t mind us stealing your Vint for a spell.”

“If Dorian’s okay with it,” Lavellan said uncertainly at first, before Dorian gave them a little wink that signaled he was perfectly fine if they were. 

“Oh I suppose,” Dorian said airily, and sat at the nearest free chair, next to another human who he heard muttering “Thought we reached a cap on Vints at this table.”

“Oh, Salve civicus,” he added when he realised the man sitting next to him was clearly of Tevinter descent. 

“Ave to you, Altus,” said the other, not quite friendly but not openly hostile, which Dorian thought was a good sign.

“Dorian, these are my Chargers. Chargers, Dorian. Visiting with the Kirkwall company, and a goddamn good dancer,” Bull introduced, and Dorian smiled, half for show and half for the warmth there. 

“You don’t have to butter me up, Bull, you already got me to sit with you,” Dorian joked, and Bull laughed. 

“You’ll be taking that back once these guys get a few drinks in them.”

Bull introduced his rowdy bunch as Krem, Rocky, Skinner, Dalish, Grim and Stitches - each apparently teaching or co-teaching classes over in their independent studio for dance, martial arts, or both, each one of them apart from Skinner outsiders from Val Royeaux that had formed a group so eclectic that many of those who often didn’t feel welcome among the institutions could find a place. 

Dorian marveled at it, wondering how much better things might have been if they had something like this in Tevinter. Or maybe they did, and he just never bothered to look, too obsessed with his own misery in the places of privilege that he’d thrived in as a dancer. 

“So how did you end up working for Madame De Fer of all people?” Dorian asks as they were halfway into the night. 

“Might surprise you to know that I actually came for a cultural relations thing back in the early days. Did a show for the stuffy nobility who probably just wanted to stare at some ‘clumsy ox men’, but I could do a mean [Trepak](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DgyliXHF9j8), and by the end of the night Madame Vivienne herself promised me work if I was ever gonna be back in Val Royeaux. Didn’t think much of it then. No reason to go back. Then I did my service, fucked up my leg and eye, got sent to the South for early retirement.”

Bull took a long drink, seeming to think on the memory for a moment. 

“What surprised me most was that she kept her promise. I wasn’t in top form, so I figured her past offer didn’t apply, but she told me she wanted me to teach the fundamentals to the kids. Sometimes I help her with some routines that need a stand-in partner. She got me this job, helped me get established in the city. Eventually, I found my Chargers, a space to keep them from going feral, and the rest is history.” 

“By early retirement… do you mean…” 

Bull twitched into the first unfriendly look Dorian had seen thrown his way, but he eventually sighed deep, as if breathing out whatever negative feelings had come over him. 

“No, I’m not Tal-Vashoth.” 

Dorian flushed, shame-faced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite know how to ask without ruining the night, but I didn’t want to assume.” 

Bull shrugged. “I like you, Dorian. But don’t push your luck,” he said simply. Dorian frowned at his cup, wondering if he should feel offended, but he just felt a little hollow, reminded unwillingly of his own exile and wishing he could find some kinship with this man he felt so… connected to, so quickly, in that regard. 

He was startled when Bull reached a hand out to cover his, and he leaned in close, rumbling into Dorian’s ear, “Come home with me tonight.” 

And Dorian agreed. 

* * *

When Dorian first brought the idea of playing the lead to Vivienne, she laughed, unkindly, in his face. It was, admittedly, rather lovely to be speaking to her as a peer instead of a starry-eyed fan, but her words were no less cold and biting. Perhaps more, if she didn’t mince her words among those she considered equal. 

“My dear,” she said in a perfectly condescending tone, “you have a great talent. Don’t squander it by choosing not to play to your own strengths.” 

Dorian gave an airy little laugh, waving her words away as though swatting away a gnat. 

“Madame, talent isn’t all I have. I’m also rather adept at making even the most outlandish roles work in my favour, and what better way to show my prowess as a dancer than to show I have the range?” he said. 

Solas looked thoughtful, which Dorian didn’t take for a good sign until he spoke up. 

“I think it would be rather interesting to see how Messere Pavus would interpret the material. And I would think you of all people, Vivienne, would know what it’s like to be told no when it comes to a role.” 

“Of course I do, Solas,” Vivienne tutted. “I simply don’t think Dorian has the disposition for the role of a romantic lead, not least because I don’t believe he could show such adoration for his very female partner-” At this, Dorian flinched, though it was unlikely she was judging him for his clear preferences more than she judged anyone for anything - she wasn’t Tevinter, after all. Orlesians didn’t have quite the same hangups about men being with men.. “But you are certainly free to try and prove me wrong, Dorian. It would certainly be a novelty.” 

Dorian took it for the challenge it was. Whether Vivienne expected him to fail or simply wished for him to be motivated didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. 

It of course meant having to take extra time practicing in the studio, vacillating between the comfortable familiarity of the suitably dramatic in a set he was choreographing in tandem with Lavellan - a study of time with switching tempos that was a wonderful challenge to put together, intent to impress the Orlesian elite with the utter scandal and undeniable skill of an elf and a mage of Tevinter - and the uncomfortable, yet appealing challenge of changing his entire style to fit the soft yet firm, decisive yet emotional moves of a princely romantic lead. 

He asked Cullen for tips, to which the man shrugged and unhelpfully said it was simply how he learned to dance. He _did_ get a nugget of clarity from the man, though, when Cullen asked, “Have you ever been in love?”

“Yes,” Dorian had answered, and Cullen looked pleased and relieved he could offer some sort of help as he continued: 

“Well, I just think of that feeling. When that love is reciprocated, when things feel right in the world, and the longing I felt when we’re apart.”

Dorian sighed. “I know longing. But unfortunately, my experience with falling in love hasn’t been so… tender and hopeful.”

Cullen deflated. “I hope that changes,” he said with such earnestness that Dorian couldn’t stand it, instead choosing to start prodding at Cullen’s new infatuation with young madame Trevelyan, who Dorian had formed camaraderie with over shared magical prowess, which she had been shy about at first until she approached Dorian after one of his flashier routines to ask if he could teach her how to do the mildly necromantic visions he’d formed around him during the finale. 

If Dorian were a better man, he’d perhaps feel guilty about corrupting an otherwise sweet and perfectly lovely Southern girl with specialisations in necromancy, but all he could feel was glee at having such a friend to impart his skill and wisdom. 

He wondered how Cullen would react to seeing his sweet lady love suddenly spark purple death visions from her fingertips.

* * *

It was one night, when Dorian was rehearsing his [Act II Prince Florimund](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=38MThq60EYc), that he looked up from his panting water break to see Bull leaning against the door frame. Dorian wasn’t sure when the door had been opened, and wondered if Bull was really that quiet or if he’d simply been distracted by the music and being in his own head, limiting himself to an emotion he wasn’t quite feeling. 

He grimaced, self-deprecating, and nodded for Bull to come in. 

“That was-”

“Some of my worst work, I know,” said Dorian. Bull shrugged. 

“Well, yeah. But it’s still solid stuff. What’s eating you?” asked Bull, as Dorian poured a bit of water over his head and let it run over his neck, overheated even if Southern chill was settling over the city outside the large windows. 

“I want to prove to myself I’m capable of dancing beyond type,” said Dorian. Bull chuckled, handing Dorian the towel and not even hiding when he ran his hand over Dorian’s as he did it. 

“Funny. In the Qun, you’ve got one role and you do it. It’s not something you break out of. It’s just something that’s right for you.” 

“Oh, I’m perfectly aware of roles you were supposedly made for,” said Dorian, shrugging. “But people aren’t really built that way, are they?” 

Bull looked like he didn’t like what he was hearing but knew not to write it off. “Guess so. That’s how it is here, anyway. Muddies the waters a little, but that’s the South for you.” 

After wiping himself off, Dorian sauntered over and leaned into Bull’s space, arms going over his broad shoulders. “Will you…” Dorian began. The only thing that might have broken the veneer of casual seduction Dorian had going was the way his eyes darted to the door and to the window, making sure nobody was watching as he got up on tip-toes to bring his mouth near Bull’s, close enough to kiss. 

“Help me practice then?” Dorian murmured, words making his lips brush teasingly against Bull’s before he pulled away, grinning. Bull groaned before letting out a huff of laughter, following Dorian onto the floor. 

“Not exactly the build for Aurora, but no harm in trying,” he said. Dorian waved him off. 

“Oh, haha. I just meant you could give me a few pointers. I know the steps, but it doesn’t… feel right, I suppose. Not very technical, but still. You’re good at seeing the details.” 

“Right. Sure, go ahead.” 

Halfway through his next pass of the choreography, Bull said in a firm teacher’s voice, “You’re too stiff. Feel the steps like water washing off you.” 

Dorian took the notes to heart and allowed himself to loosen, though he couldn’t imagine that the noble prince would dance like a lush, which is how he felt as he made his movements more fluid. 

“Better, but you have to feel the music. Your body already knows the steps, focus on the feeling.” 

Telling Dorian not to think only made him think more, and he knew that by the time he ended on the final note, his work had been subpar at best. Bull shrugged when he came over. “You weren’t kidding about your worst work,” he said, and Dorian rolled his eyes. 

“Thank you for the ringing endorsement.” 

“It was way better though. You’re getting there. You just need to not be in your own head so much. Feel the emotions in the piece, don’t think about what it’s supposed to be.”

“If you ask me if I’ve ever been in love, I will punch you,” Dorian said without heat. Bull shrugged. 

“I don’t really think that’s what this piece is about. Have you ever… lost anyone?” Bull asked, the question sounding loaded with more meaning than Dorian felt worthy of being privy to. 

“Nobody worth thinking about,” said Dorian. 

He had feared such loss, of course. Felix had been a sick child, one of the few enduring an ages-old sickness that had been eradicated with modern medicine, had Felix not proven adverse to the drugs that could save his life from the Maker-damned old Blight. 

And then there were the men in his life that he thought were safe havens in Tevinter society. Willing to keep things quiet but craving tenderness regardless. But when all was said and done, they were happy to leave Dorian cold and alone to pursue comfort and fill the roles they were given. 

Bull sighed, then straightened up to full height, dwarfing Dorian significantly. His posture was perfect, neck extended yet head looking down, eyes closed as he slowly brought his hands up in front of him then above his head. He made a rolling gesture with both hands then brought one down to cup the centre of his chest while the other extended, palm-up, to Dorian - a familiar gesture for any dancer, a mime of “dance with me” while one hand cradled the heart in a gesture of love or strong feeling. 

What Dorian noted, however, was the undeniable sadness in the way Bull made his move, a depth of feeling Dorian doubted he had ever been capable of showing in his own dance, as passionate and as fiery many claimed him to be. 

This was true emotion without a word spoken, and Dorian felt himself shake, even as he laid his hand gently over Bull’s. 

Bull pulled him close, and they stood together, half in and half out of the pretence of dance practice and just breathing each other in. 

“I hope you never have to go through that,” said Bull. “But that’s always what I thought the piece needed.” 

“Hm, I suppose if I spend less time trying to swoon like Cullen the moment Trevelyan gives him bedroom eyes, I might actually improve,” Dorian said, though his voice was much too soft, much too afraid to break this moment between them. 

He raised his hands and ran them down Bull’s broad shoulders, giving him an affectionate kiss before going over the piece again. He could already feel himself do better, even if it didn’t quite feel right, though when he thought about Bull, and his injuries and his history and the things that he must have gone through to know such sadness and loss so intimately, Dorian felt _for_ him, and knew that Bull’s applause when he gave a bow was genuine. 

* * *

“Hey, you busy today?” Bull asked when they finished another day of practice. Dorian had gotten quite the reputation with Bull’s class, the giggles and gossip telling him that Dorian and Bull’s dancing around each other hadn’t gone unnoticed. There were a fair few of them that had formed prolific crushes on Dorian, but the day Dorian would even consider entertaining the dreamy eyes of boys more than a decade younger than him was the day he’d go back to Tevinter and marry a nice society girl. 

“How forward of you,” Dorian said absently, to which Bull raised a brow as if to say _I can be forward if you want, but I don’t want the kids to hear it._

It wasn’t like they weren’t having amazing sex already, at least the nights Dorian didn’t spend split between his piece with Lavellan, an exhibition piece with the other senior dancers, and his own ill-begotten leading man audition, so however more forward Bull wanted to be, it probably wouldn’t do to speak of it in even adult company. 

“Ha ha. Seriously though, don’t wanna cut in with your time with the twins,” Bull said, waggling his brows knowingly. 

Dorian rolled his eyes, thinking about the rehearsals he had been having with an interlude dance involving himself, Cullen, and Marye and Meron Trevelyan - an indulgent Southern Chantry bit where he, the evil Magister of ancient times, tempted noble siblings away from Cullen’s steadfast templar. The end of the little pantomime had Dorian whisking the mage sister away with necromantic temptations and the warrior brother mourning the loss, comforted by his templar. 

Everyone had more than a little fun with it - with Meron and Dorian teasing Cullen for his crush on Marye even as the role called for him to canoodle her brother. 

“None of that today. We’re working on Lavellan’s choreography, which should be done by 4pm, if the Horned Madame and the Hobo Genius don’t question my every suggestion. What did you have in mind?” Dorian asked. Bull gave him one of his unbearably idiotic (and endearing) non-winks with his patched eye. 

“You’ll see. I’ll meet you at the front, say, 4:30? Dress comfy,” Bull said, lifting Dorian’s hand and giving it a peck that set off a not-so-subtle wave of titters from behind them. 

Dorian snatched his hand away huffily, but the knowing look on Bull’s face said he knew not to be offended. As if Dorian didn’t love these little, thoughtless acts of affection from a man he’d been… well, dating, though it wasn’t something either of them had talked about beyond the Very Good Sex. 

That, and Dorian’s easy friendship with Lavellan, something he hadn’t felt since Felix, as well as the challenge of his role collaborating with primas and primos, made the thought of returning to his lonely room in Kirkwall after their months of working together all the more daunting. 

* * *

Dorian found Bull waiting for him at the bottom of the steps to the Academy, being gawked at by passers-by and talking to an elf woman that gave Dorian a friendly, bright smile when he arrived. 

“So you’re the Magister, eh?” she greeted jovially in an accent that told Dorian she wasn’t originally of the city, as if her proud Dalish tattoos didn’t already give that away. Despite the era of multiculturalism brought about by Celene, that didn’t mean elves were treated fairly in many parts of the world, but especially not in Orlais and Tevinter - Celene’s not-so-secret elvish activist lover notwithstanding. 

“My father is. And I’m here fucking a Qunari in the ass-end of the South, so,” Dorian said, and the woman laughed, smacking him on the back with a force that nearly toppled him, had Bull not given him an elbow to grab on his way down. 

“Okay, Dalish, take it easy. I brought you because you said you’d behave, remember?” Bull chided, sounding a bit like a mother hen as he rubbed Dorian’s back. 

“Oh Chief, he better learn to take it if he’s gonna be around your wild Mabari pack,” said… Dalish, though that couldn’t possibly be her real name.

“Shall I also call you Dalish, then, or will that be too offensive coming from a Magister?” Dorian wondered, allowing when Dalish hooked a skinny elbow in his, putting them in a strange chain of three walking down the street and catching even more attention - a Qunari, a visibly Dalish elf, and a Vint arm-in-arm leaving the prestigious Royal Ballet. 

“Not at all. If you haven’t noticed, I like reminding people exactly who they’re talking to,” said Dalish conspiratorially. “And you probably couldn’t pronounce my real name, anyway.” 

“Try me.” 

“Nope. Old Dalish secret, that is,” said Dalish, winking. 

“Fuck off, Dalish,” said Bull, chuckling. “Last time you said that cheese thing you make was an old Dalish secret until we found out it was just made from Ferelden nug, ram, and druffalo milk.” 

Dalish nodded sagely. “Dalish cheese is an exotic luxury at the Courtyard farmers market because none of these humans know it’s made from whatever shite we could throw together at the time. You’d better not go blabbing now, you hear?” Dalish said, wiggling her fingers at Dorian and sending a few sparks up. 

“Ah, so you’re a mage as well?” Dorian asked, eyes lighting up. 

“No, of course not,” Dalish said, shaking her head emphatically before winking theatrically. “Not a mage! Why would I be? Absolutely ridiculous accusation, I never!” 

Dorian threw a questioning look at Bull, who only shrugged, as if to say ‘don’t ask’. 

* * *

After a quick hop on a street car and a bit of a walk along the beautiful harbour, they eventually arrived at a quaint old five-storey bearing the name _Chargers Dance Studio,_ rounded by an inexplicable dragon carving. 

“I like dragons,” said Bull when Dorian asked. Dorian gave a mocking eyeroll, undercut by how he still held Bull’s hand as they climbed the steps into a much more open second floor and its old but well-maintained dance floor. 

“Impressive,” said Dorian, looking out the window at the low but lovely view of the harbourside. 

“We do a bit of an evening jazz class that Grim teaches with Stitches interpreting, if you wanna join in,” said Bull. His tone was easygoing as always, but with the time Dorian had spent watching for every little subtlety and shift of expression in his parents when he was young - not wanting to set them off until he eventually decided that was all he wanted to do - he could see that the answer mattered to Bull more than he let on. 

“Jazz, hm. I’ve seen a bit of it, but I’ve never tried to dance it myself. I hope it’s close enough to classical training that I don’t embarrass myself,” said Dorian, and Bull looked warm and pleased. 

“A lot of it crosses over, but jazz is a lot more theatrical,” said Bull, and Dorian gave a dazzling grin and tilted his head. 

“My kind of dance,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. Bull seemed to find that particularly endearing, because he gave Dorian a thoughtless peck on the forehead at the gesture. 

“It also helps with feeling yourself,” Bull said, the innuendo too easy for him to play on, but all he gave was one knowing raise of his brows - surprising restraint for him - before continuing. “Might help to branch out just so you’re not winding yourself up too tight with the classical stuff. I used to be so overly involved in the mechanics of dance that I forgot what it felt to really feel a piece until I started on other kinds of dance. Jazz, Modern, and a few cultural dances the boys bring with them.” 

“I can do a mean Vivazzi salsa, if that counts,” said Dorian, nervous and enthralled in equal measure. 

“Well hey, so can Krem,” laughed Bull. “Maybe you two can give us a demonstration.” 

* * *

When Stitches and Grim finally arrived to the gaggle of students both young and old, who trickled in while Dorian and Bull sat back, there was barely any ceremony before they hit play and a surprising hard rock number by a familiar Kirkwall band got everyone on their feet. 

Grim’s face seemed set in stone, but his body certainly wasn’t, and he led the group of enthusiastic dancers in a routine they’d clearly learned over weeks, adding in casually challenging flourishes, spins, and shaking jazz hands aplenty while Stitches called the moves out without missing a beat. 

It took Dorian half a song to get into the rhythm, the hard beat making it easy to follow as soon as Dorian let the learned tension of his neck (chin tilted up, long like a swan’s) ease and he allowed his hardest steps to hit the song’s hardest beats. 

At the end, he was panting from the exertion but feeling invigorated. He definitely showed off at the end there, and he and Grim had a silent competition of who could get increasingly difficult moves in while Stitches looked bemused, guiding the class with simpler versions until everyone moved to the sidelines when Grim did a [stag leap](https://youtu.be/_ZKZEeiJOCU?t=44) and a [renversé](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gm6BXZBwu0o) and Dorian brought out his butterfly to startled applause. 

It was freeing, in a way, to not have to care about keeping his neck up and back straight, but letting his body extend and bend to where the hardest beats of the music let him go. He made a great friend in Grim at the end, even if the man didn’t speak a single word, and Stitches’ eternal look of mom-friend bemusement extended to him in welcome. 

That night, they took dinner by the water, and Dorian was able to enjoy the beauty of Val Royeaux’s artificial lake, the lights that spread over it to charm tourists and comfort locals. The soft, saxophone tunes evoked images of deep, solitary, thoughtful evenings Dorian had had in Kirkwall, but with his feet resting on Bull’s lap as they sat across from each other, it didn’t feel quite as lonely.   
  
  
  



End file.
